Closer Than You Think

by Karen Rose

  Henson hit the button on his intercom. ‘Mrs Lowell, can you call my grandson’s cell phone?’ He released the intercom and looked at Deacon.

  ‘Mr Henson,’ Mrs Lowell said through the intercom, ‘I got his voicemail.’

  ‘Leave him a message. Tell him to call me ASAP, that it is urgent.’ Henson cut off the intercom, smiling thinly. ‘Now, if there is nothing else, I have an appointment waiting.’

  Deacon didn’t budge, nor did Bishop. ‘There is still much you can do for us,’ Deacon said. ‘Like telling us when was the last time you were at the O’Bannion house.’

  Henson’s eyebrows shot up over his spectacles. ‘Am I a suspect?’

  ‘Can you answer the question, please?’ Deacon countered.

  Henson leaned back in his chair, his pleasant facade disintegrating, revealing the iron core beneath. This was the man who’d remained a trusted adviser to the wealthy for more than sixty years. ‘Twenty-three years ago,’ he answered curtly.

  ‘At Tobias’s funeral?’ Deacon asked. ‘Or at Margaret Sullivan’s?’

  ‘Margaret’s, although I attended Tobias’s as well.’

  ‘You’d known them that long?’ Deacon asked.

  ‘Yes. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes.’ Deacon was becoming both annoyed and suspicious at Henson’s hurry. ‘I must say I’m a little surprised that an attorney of your stature would take care of such small details as home maintenance for your clients.’

  ‘I don’t. I did it for Barbara because we were friends. I’d known both Tobias and Barbara since the 1940s. Tobias was the best friend of my older brother. My wife and Barbara were schoolmates. We were Joy’s godparents.’

  ‘Who was Joy?’ Bishop asked.

  ‘Joy was Barbara’s firstborn. She died at fifteen. Leukemia.’

  Deacon frowned. ‘I thought Jordan was the one who had cancer, when he was a teenager.’

  Henson tilted his head appraisingly. ‘He was also stricken. How did you know that?’

  ‘Faith told me.’

  ‘Interesting. I suppose she would have been old enough to know what was going on at the time,’ Henson mused.

  ‘The O’Bannions had two children to develop cancer?’ Bishop asked.

  Henson nodded. ‘The family had more than their share of heartache. At any rate, Barbara and I go back decades. That’s why I handled the details of the house for her.’

  ‘Why didn’t Jordan do that?’ Deacon asked.

  ‘He took care of her physically and seemed to do that well. He wasn’t so responsible otherwise.’

  Deacon thought of the photo the genie gymnast had shown him. ‘In what way?’

  ‘Drinking too much. Carousing with women. Parties. He lives in the art world, and even in a town as conservative as this one, they are rather . . . free-spirited.’

  ‘Does he make a good living as an art dealer?’ Bishop asked.

  Henson frowned, perturbed. ‘If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you. But I don’t. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes,’ Deacon said. ‘Why don’t you like the O’Bannion house? You referred to it as “that damn house”. I know Faith doesn’t like it, but why don’t you?’

  ‘Because it was a drain on Barbara, emotionally and financially, but she was determined to hold on to it. It was her remaining legacy to leave to her children and grandchildren.’

  ‘Remaining legacy?’ Bishop asked.

  Henson stiffened, as if he’d said too much. ‘The house was all she had left of her past. The cemetery was there, with Joy’s grave. She didn’t want to give it up to strangers.’

  Bishop’s black brows rose. ‘Joy’s grave? Not her husband’s or Margaret’s?’

  Henson flushed. ‘Their graves are there, too. Every O’Bannion for more than a century is buried there. She loved Margaret and Tobias, but Joy died so young. She never quite got over her death.’

  ‘One more question,’ Deacon said. ‘Where do you keep the combination to the vault written down?’

  ‘I don’t,’ Henson said haughtily. ‘I have it memorized. I may be old, but my mind is as sharp as ever.’

  ‘I don’t disagree with that one bit,’ Deacon said mildly. ‘But you’re also not a fool. You don’t have to be old to die unexpectedly. A man as careful as you has backup plans. You keep the combination written down somewhere, or you have a code, or some way to communicate the combo to your successors.’

  ‘I said I do not have it written down.’ Henson struggled to his feet, reaching for the walker he kept under his desk. ‘Now I have clients waiting. Mrs Lowell will show you out.’

  Mrs Lowell’s steps were brisk as she led them to the entrance. Deacon slowed his step when he got to the waiting room and took a moment to study all the photographs and placards on the wall near the door. Henson Senior was shown sitting behind his desk. Henson the Third was standing next to his desk, arms crossed casually across a very broad chest.

  Henson the Third was built just like Peter Combs.

  Deacon waited to speak until he and Bishop got to their cars. ‘Did you see Henson the Third’s picture?’

  ‘Yeah. Big guy, just like Peter Combs. It also fits with the King’s College crime scene. Arianna and Corinne were abducted from the path that led from the library to the dorms. There were signs of a struggle by the path, but then nothing more all the way to the access road. Arianna’s a tall girl. He would have needed some height and muscle to carry the women that far. Height and muscle like Combs or Henson’s grandson.’

  ‘You’re sure he used the access road to escape the college?’

  ‘I found one of Arianna’s earrings next to tire tracks on the access road’s shoulder – the earrings she was wearing in the photo her roommate gave the cops when she filed the missing person report.’

  ‘Good enough for me,’ Deacon said. ‘Henson the Third has been in Cincinnati for at least four years, and he’s had access to the house and, even though Senior won’t admit it, probably to the will as well. He would have known that Faith had inherited the property.’

  Bishop nodded. ‘I thought the same thing. He’s got the vault combination noted somehow, somewhere. The old man is eighty-six years old. He has to have been handing things off to his grandson. Could Henson the Third have been behind the attacks on Faith?’ She slanted Deacon a cautious look. ‘Could it be that this Combs guy isn’t involved at all?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking the same thing,’ he admitted. ‘Except that we have the ballistics that links Gordon Shue’s murder to the shots fired during the struggle with the Earl Power tech.’

  ‘And the bullet that killed Anthony Brown, the hotel guest,’ Bishop added. ‘The crimes are connected, but it doesn’t mean Combs was the one trying to kill her in Florida, or now.’

  ‘Or not alone, at least. We could be talking about two killers, working together – or at least to the same end, which is keeping Faith away from the house. That’s consistent with the fact that Combs only met her four years ago and it’s looking like these crimes go back at least ten years.’

  ‘When Henson’s firm hired a new maintenance company,’ Bishop said.

  ‘Exactly. Plus, Combs couldn’t have known about the will unless someone told him – someone who did know about it. Somebody built like a linebacker tried to climb through Faith’s apartment window in Miami. So far, that’s Henson the Third or Combs. Henson has access to the will, but Combs did try to kill her once before, so his involvement is still conceivable.’

  ‘I saw the scar on her throat. Combs did that?’

  Deacon nodded, keeping the fury from his voice. ‘Yeah. He did. Four years ago.’

  ‘Because she turned him in to his PO for missing a therapy appointment or because she was somehow in league with that Sex Crimes cop you and Vega were talking about?’

  ‘And if she was?’ Deacon asked quietly.

  ‘Then she was directly responsible for him going to prison for three years. She could lose her license. If anyone reported her. Which would so totally not be
worth the paperwork.’

  Deacon smiled at her. ‘I thought the same thing.’

  Bishop smiled back, then sobered. ‘Henson the Third has been in Cinci for the last four years. The bios they posted on their foyer wall said that his law degree came from the University of Kentucky, so he was close by during the years before that. But, like you said, we can’t dismiss Combs entirely because he has the history with Faith and we do have a ballistics link to Miami-based crimes. Where was Combs before he got arrested for molesting his stepdaughter?’

  ‘I pulled his record. No previous arrests.’

  ‘I mean geographically. Did he come from Ohio? Could he have known the O’Bannions? Known about the house before he began therapy with Faith?’

  Deacon shook his head. ‘Combs has a steady work history in Florida. There’s no mention of any affiliation with anyone or any place in Ohio. Plus, a judge ordered him to therapy. That he’d be purposely assigned to Faith is way beyond improbable.’

  ‘I agree. Just checking to be sure you hadn’t veered off into conspiracy theory territory.’

  He opened his mouth to protest, then stopped himself. It was fair. They’d only been partners for a month. She couldn’t know that he’d never lost his mind over a woman before.

  ‘So,’ Bishop went on, ‘let’s consider that we’re dealing with two different people. What if Combs was sought out by whoever laid claim to that basement years ago because he had a history with her? What better person to sic on Faith Corcoran than the man who spent three years behind bars because of her? That way the “basement killer” can keep his hands clean. Nobody would think to look for him because everyone knew Combs had tried to kill Faith before. What if Combs’s role is that of a contract killer, whether he’s aware of it or not?’

  ‘Good point.’ Deacon began considering all the possibilities. ‘If that’s the case, it makes sense that the basement killer made contact with Combs after Faith inherited the house, otherwise the attempts on Faith’s life would have started long before now.’

  ‘Assuming they didn’t. Has she had any other near misses over the years?’

  That made Deacon frown. ‘I don’t know. I’ll ask her. So we have two suspects – Combs and Henson the Third. We need to account for the movements of both of them over the past month.’

  ‘We have to find them first,’ Bishop said pragmatically. ‘Vega’s been looking for Combs for a month. Maybe she couldn’t find him because he was here.’

  ‘Abducting Corinne and Arianna,’ he said grimly.

  ‘In the meantime, we still have Maguire and Sons. Let’s check them out next. See if they really have seen inside that basement. That’ll give us more information on Henson the Third.’

  Deacon checked the time. ‘I have to be at Greg’s principal’s office soon and King’s College is on the way. Let’s split up. You take Maguire and I’ll stop by the college crime scene and see what CSU has found. I’ll text you when I’m done with Greg. Then we find Herbie the Third.’

  Bishop gave him a wave as she got into her car. ‘Good luck with the principal.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Deacon had the feeling he was going to need it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Eastern Kentucky, Tuesday 4 November, 11.00 A.M.

  Corinne came awake suddenly, her body tensing for a blow. That never came.

  She struggled to sit up against the cabin door. She’d passed out, dammit. Somehow she’d slept. But for how long? She forced herself to stand, closing her eyes briefly against a wave of dizziness and nausea. And pain. Can’t forget about the pain. Every joint in her body hurt.

  ‘Buck up, soldier,’ she snapped channeling her boot camp drill sergeant. ‘Stop your whining.’ She opened the door and looked up. The moon had been high in the night sky when she’d escaped from the storm cellar. Now the sun was shining brightly.

  She’d slept half the day away. Dammit. She’d wanted to be long gone hours ago.

  She closed the door and sat down on the bed next to the girl, who’d curled up in a ball. Progress. At least she had moved.

  Corinne shook her shoulder. ‘Please, wake up. We need to run and I can’t carry you.’

  Her gaze fell on the wheelbarrow and suddenly she saw herself racing through the woods at cartoon speed, pushing the girl in the barrow. She laughed out loud at the notion, then started when the girl’s shoulder jerked under her hand. She was waking up.

  Corinne rubbed her back. ‘If I have to push you, I will, but I’d really prefer not to. I know you can hear me. Please open your eyes. I won’t hurt you. He’s not here.’

  The girl stiffened. ‘He’ll come back,’ she whispered.

  ‘Yeah, he will. We need to be gone by then.’

  The little body began to tremble. ‘He’ll find us. He’ll kill us. Or worse.’

  Arianna’s screams echoed in Corinne’s mind. ‘That’s why we need to be gone by then,’ she said, infusing a confidence into her voice that she did not feel. ‘Can you sit up?’

  The girl’s eyes slowly opened and she gasped. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘I don’t know. A cabin, somewhere in the woods. Sit up now.’

  The girl pushed herself up weakly. ‘I don’t feel good.’

  ‘Neither do I. He drugged us.’

  The girl shook her head. ‘No, he couldn’t have drugged you. I took it all.’

  Corinne frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  Large dark eyes searched the room. ‘Where is the other girl? Arianna?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was just the two of us in the van.’ And the two dead men.

  The girl began to shake. ‘Then he killed her. I tried to help her, but it didn’t work. He won. He always wins. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. She didn’t get away.’

  Corinne’s jaw clenched. ‘We don’t know that. What do you mean, you took it all?’

  ‘He gave me medicine for you and Arianna. To make you sleepy. I wanted her to get away, so I didn’t give it to her.’

  ‘You took it yourself? All of it? The drug for both of us?’

  ‘I couldn’t leave,’ she said simply.

  ‘Why not?’ Had she wanted to die there?

  The girl’s gaze dropped to the blanket. ‘I couldn’t leave Mama.’

  Mama? Corinne’s brows drew together. ‘Where is your mama, honey?’

  ‘At home. She’s dead. I buried her.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Please, take me home.’

  ‘What do you mean, you buried her?’ Corinne asked cautiously.

  The girl was staring at her like she was speaking a foreign tongue. ‘I dug a hole. I put her in it.’

  Corinne tried not to let her horror show. She’d buried her own mother? Dear God.

  ‘All right,’ she soothed, instinct telling her not to try to reason with the girl. Not just yet. ‘We’ll figure out how to get you back. I don’t even know your name. I’m Corinne.’

  ‘Firoza, but Mama always called me Roza. “Roza, with a zed,”’ she whispered, with a nod.

  Zed. The British soldiers Corinne had met while she’d been deployed in Afghanistan had said zed. Except Roza didn’t sound British. Canadian, maybe. They also said zed.

  If Roza’s mother truly was dead, maybe the girl still had family. If I get us out of here . . . No. When I get us out of here, I need to be able to tell the police where to look for her family.

  She made herself smile gently. ‘All right, Roza with a zed. We are going to get away from here and he is not going to win. Not this time. But we can’t just run through the woods willy-nilly. I need to find you a coat and some shoes. And some food. Do you think you could eat?’ Glancing at the stew leftover in the pot, she grimaced. It had been sitting for a long time. The last thing they needed was food poisoning when they were running for their lives. She searched the galley kitchen’s cabinets and found them stocked with cans of chicken soup and beef stew. Lots of soup and stew.

  She chose a can of soup and turned on the stove, but nothing happened. It was out of gas. She though
t about the blood all over the cabin’s back wall, by the gas tank.

  Whoever had been cooking the beef stew had gone out to check the gas tank because his fire went out. She glanced uneasily over her shoulder at the pile of dirt. He’d shot the stew maker and buried him or her, along with the two dead men from the van. We need to get out of here.

  ‘The stove doesn’t work, so we’ll have to eat it cold,’ she said briskly. She opened a can and took it and a spoon to where Roza sat on the bed. ‘Eat as much as you can. We don’t have much time, but I don’t want either of us collapsing because we’re too hungry.’

  Roza dug in with surprising gusto. ‘I eat it cold all the time,’ she said with her mouth full. ‘I’m not allowed to use the stove.’

  Of course she wasn’t. That sonofabitch had made this child his slave. Fury simmered in Corinne’s gut as she quickly checked every drawer, every cupboard. Cans of soup, a few cans of PET milk. Bottles of water. Several flannel shirts. The shirts they could use. We’ll layer.

  She found a worn pair of men’s boots in the closet, too big for either of them but closer to Corinne’s size than Roza’s. I’ll wear these, she decided. Roza will have to wear my shoes.

  The boots had been sitting on top of a blanket. She took the blanket too. No telling how long they’d have to walk before—

  ‘Hello,’ she murmured. A promising-looking old steamer trunk had been hidden by the blanket. She lifted the lid and found jars. Dozens of Mason jars. Canned goods? Fruit? Something besides soup, she hoped. Carefully she lifted one out of the trunk.

  And squinted, at first unsure of what she was looking at. Then realization dawned and she froze, horrified. A thin cry escaped her throat as the jar slipped from her hand and rolled across the floor. It came to a rest a few feet away, the contents sloshing back and forth. She stared.

  The contents of the jar stared back. Eyes. Human eyes.

  ‘Oh my God.’ Corinne turned her head, gagging. ‘Oh my God. Oh my God.’

  There were human eyes in the jars. Dozens of eyes. And other things. Hearts, kidneys, all suspended in a murky liquid.